


The Article

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 13:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5786257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A scathing Times article about Charlie Venkman does far more damage to his son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Article

 

First published in  _Trap Open! 2_ (2003)

 

At first, Winston thought he was imagining it.

Being a black man, then a Vietnam vet, then a Ghostbuster, had taught him something about being snubbed. He was used to the occasional nasty or condescending look, the feeling of being talked about behind his back, and usually shook it off without more than passing anger, and pity. They were the ones with the problems, after all, not he.

So the attitude of their first client of the day had struck him as off, but with none of the other guys reacting, maybe he was just being over-sensitive. After all, even when he brushed off an occasional racist comment, his three colleagues weren’t nearly so forgiving. They protected each other against any attack, physical or verbal, supernatural or too-human.

Maybe the woman was just naturally stiff. Even her professed delight at being rid of the ghost haunting the upstairs floor was cold, her gaze lingering condescendingly on Peter as she gave him their check. Winston had been glad to get out of there and he’d soon put the matter out of his mind and gone on to the next bust lined up for that morning.

While the previous one had been in fashionable Haight-Ashbury, this one was on the docks, a warehouse where a broken crate was reported to have released a noxious spirit. Ray and Egon were intrigued the moment they got there, conferring over readings, while Peter discussed details with their client, the warehouse foreman. He looked like a reasonable man, seasoned with work but with an honest gaze and a firm handshake and grin for Winston. One that disappeared as soon as he moved on to Peter.

Winston narrowed his eyes and, even as he went through the motions of casing the scene to figure out a plan of attack, he kept half an ear on Peter and the foreman’s conversation.

“…is our standard price for trapping and storage, per entity. You said you only saw one?”

“Yeah, me and about a dozen of the men, so he’d better not split into two when it comes time for billing.”

They were used to skeptics and Peter wasn’t one to easily ruffle. “They don’t usually do that, but how ‘bout we give you a two-for-one deal if he does,” he said with a smooth smile. “Now, we have a contract here, standard arrangement, and you’ll notice we’re not liable for any damage—“

The foreman barked a laugh. “That’s convenient. You know how much business we’d get if we made deals like that? You people are all alike.”

Only Winston heard the hesitation, then Peter’s voice became flat, diplomatic. “Well, sir, if I’m not mistaken, you called us. We can just leave, if you want, let you take care of your little problem…”

He didn’t have to let that dangle for long. The foreman huffed unhappily. “No—no, just do your job.”

“Fine.” The contract was signed without further discussion, and Ray and Egon showed up soon to share their findings. And Winston watched the foreman immediately become respectful and friendly again, answering the two scientists’ questions readily.

So, it was Peter he was reacting to. How strange was that? Furthermore, from Peter’s expression, Venkman was aware of it, too, if letting it slide.

The bust went smoothly, as did payment, and they went on to their next call, this time at an office building. And Winston saw it happen all over again, almost outright rudeness to Peter, without any noticeable contempt for the rest of them. Egon was starting to notice, too, and threw more than one concerned glance at their resident psychologist and such hostile ones at their client, Winston almost laughed. If it hadn’t been so unfunny. They got out of there as quickly as possible.

One more stop that morning, and Winston snagged Peter at the door this time, noticing Egon hanging back to listen.

“Pete, I don’t know what’s going on, but you and I both know something’s up. Let me handle the client on this one, huh?” he offered.

Peter Venkman, for all his show of nonchalance and glib humor, was a sensitive person. Winston had learned that early on in their partnership, seeing the public persona fade when the garage doors shut behind them. He could be glib and light with them, too, of course—that was just Peter’s way. But his eyes never lied, and right now they were wary, angry and bewildered, and a little wounded.

But he wasn’t one to go down easily, either, and he straightened at Winston’s words. “Hey, I can handle a few skeptics. I _thrive_ on it. After what we face on the job, you think a few nasty clients are gonna get to me?”

And that might have been true normally, but then again, clients weren’t normally singling out Peter to be nasty to. Winston shook his head, not budging, but before he could say a word, Egon took a step closer. “This is different, Peter--it seems to be personal today. No one is questioning your ability to handle the nescient people we meet on this job, but that does not mean you should have to do so by yourself. Let Winston take this one.”

Peter, besides having healthy amounts of intelligence, compassion, and empathy, also had a great deal of pride. Winston could see it kindling even as he opened his mouth to protest. And then he met Egon’s eyes and shut his mouth again. They argued silently for a moment, but Winston knew Peter was aware they were concerned for him.

“Sure, I’m not gonna argue with someone who wants to work in my place,” he finally said, a little too brightly for Winston’s taste, but an exchanged look with Spengler told him the physicist was on it. Satisfied, Winston forged ahead, catching up with Ray and introducing himself to their newest client.

This one was your average homeowner, the ones they tried to give a little break to on busting because the ghosts in question were often old relatives and the customers didn’t usually have much money. That day’s client looked no different, a nervous man in jeans and a sweatshirt, waiting to tell them about the woman with no feet who floated down the main hallway each week.

Winston was watching the man—George Surrey—when Peter and Egon appeared, and wasn’t sure but he thought he saw Surrey’s eyes sharpen at the introduction of the brunet Ghostbuster. It was gone as quickly as it’d come, though, and the three doctors were soon headed upstairs to the main hallway while Winston ironed out the usual details.

The minute they were left alone, Surrey wheeled unexpectedly on Winston. “That Venkman, you trust him?”

Even after the morning they’d been having, the question caught him completely off guard, and Winston stared at the man for a moment. Then, icily, answered, “Doctor Venkman is one of the founding members of the Ghostbusters, sir. He has two doctorates from Columbia and has saved this city a couple times over. I’d trust him with my life.”

Surrey had the decency to flush. “Well, okay. I was just asking. It’s hard to let a bunch of strangers into your house to catch, well, a ghost.”

Which hadn’t led him to ask about any of the other three of them. “Why Peter Venkman in particular?” Winston regarded Surrey warily.

Their client was looking everywhere but at Winston, probably sorry he’d brought the matter up, but he lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Well, you know, with his father and all.”

Oh, Lord. Winston felt his stomach sink. Charlie Venkman was behind this? And somehow everyone knew? Oh, man, that would kill Peter.

The sound of a yelp and the throwers firing above cut off the interview he’d liked to have continued, and Winston rushed up the narrow steps to provide back-up.

Their little-old-lady ghost had somehow grown a lot of teeth and some scaly green skin. In fact, she reminded him of the first ghost the guys had told him they’d ever encountered, at the library. But now wasn’t the time for reminiscing, with Peter already thoroughly slimed and down, grimacing as he held a beam on the struggling ghost. Ray had just skidded into position and added his beam, and Egon was squinting…about to step on the glasses that were beside him on the floor. Winston jumped over next to him, sliding the glasses out of the way with a foot and adding his own beam to the two others’. That did it. Egon nearsightedly fumbled a trap under it, and then they were finished, panting and sagging with relief.

“My glasses,” Egon murmured, and Ray scooped them up and returned them to the physicist, who then promptly moved with Stantz to converge on Peter. Winston worriedly followed.

“I’m okay, guys,” Peter was wincing, “just fell wrong.”

Ribs, Winston concluded. Definitely not broken was the consensus, but maybe bruised. Seemed like their lunch break would be spent at the hospital. Typical day.

Ray helped Peter up, while Egon collected the trap and watched his two friends, pausing only to throw a questioning glance at Winston. _Later_ , he telegraphed back to the physicist, getting a nod in return. The four of them gingerly made their way back down the steps, not enough room to go side-by-side, but Ray and Egon sandwiching Peter between them as they went.

“Guys, I’m not broken, just a little bruised.” The protest was half-hearted, its plausibility weakened by the strain in his voice.

“I believe we should let the doctor decide that, Peter,” was Egon’s stern answer, but he was gentle and concerned as he eased the physicist downstairs with a hand on his arm.

Peter just muttered something petulant while Winston tried not to smile. A _lot_ bruised was more like it. He really had to teach that boy to duck better.

Surrey met them at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes widening at the sight of Peter. Hopefully just reacting to the slime; Winston had seen it before. Sometimes he tried to remember what it was like seeing a ghost and being slimed for the first time, viewing it how the person on the street did. It was hard. Busting had become a way of life a long time before.

“I’m not paying for any injuries,” their client burst out, just when Winston was beginning to think they were home free. “I didn’t even see it happen—you can’t fool me!”

Peter’s eyes darkened, the smoldering anger of before returning. But layered under it was a baffled hurt, and Winston saw Ray wince and Egon’s mouth tighten in recognition of it. Of all of them, Peter Venkman was the one most skilled at giving as he got, but no answer was forthcoming now.

Egon, however, wasn’t about let it go so easily. Spine stiffening, the physicist turned toward their client with fire in his eyes. Great—a protective, riled Spengler was almost as bad as a protective, riled Peter. Winston quickly stepped in.

“Injuries aren’t covered by the bill—they’re part of the job you pay us for. We face the danger so you don’t have to,” he said sternly. This guy wasn’t going to be getting any price breaks from him, that was for sure, even if he had blushed at Winston’s words. The Ghostbuster filled out the bill with grim satisfaction as he heard the guys leave behind him, Ray talking quietly with Peter, Egon’s arm now under his elbow. They were all looking after Peter in their own way, he guessed. Part of being a team.

Surrey paid without a protest, and Winston was almost sorry, spoiling for a fight. He hadn’t been that annoyed in a while, and funny thing was, he didn’t even know who to be mad at. This client of theirs just seemed to be reacting to some sort of common knowledge, and as much as Winston longed to quiz him as to its source, they really had to get to the hospital.

He thrust the receipt at Surrey, unable to resist adding quietly, “Peter Venkman’s one of the most honorable, good-hearted, smartest people I’ve ever met. Judging a guy based on his dad makes as much sense as judging him based on the color of his skin. You should think about that before you treat someone like that again.” He tapped the receipt book on the man’s chest, giving him a pointed look, and strode out without a backward glance.

Ecto was already packed, Peter and Ray in the back seat. Ray was watching Peter with frank worry, while Peter curled in the far corner around ribs that had to be smarting. He was answering Ray’s questions with brief, breathy phrases edged in weak humor, but at least he was answering. Winston tossed him a grin as he got in, getting a pained smile in return. Egon was playing with his calculator in the front seat, but it didn’t take long to realize his attention was focused on the man behind him, too.

It was depressing when Winston thought about it sometimes, that they always knew where the closest hospital was, and the shortest way to get there. He preferred to think of it as being prepared, but the fact was that the first aid _kit_ was prepared. Hospital routes were experience. Suppressing a sigh, he pulled Ecto out into the avenue, trying to both hurry and drive smoothly for Peter’s sake. A few minutes later they were pulling up to the emergency room entrance.

The carphone rang just as they were about to get out. Winston glanced at Egon, who picked it up with a terse, “Hello.” He listened a moment before putting a hand over the mouthpiece.

“It’s Janine—I’ll be there in a minute.”

Winston nodded and moved to the back to help Pete. He could feel Egon’s eyes on them as he and Ray escorted Peter inside, moving like old men, the psychologist clearly trying not to wince as he walked. Once inside, they deposited him in a plastic chair, where he lapsed into white-faced silence as Ray and Winston exchanged a frown. The ribs no doubt hurt like blazes, but Winston wondered how much of the man’s reaction had to do with that day’s clients and their odd behavior. Well, that was a question for later. Winston gave Venkman a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then headed to the nurses’ station as Ray stayed with Peter.

The waiting room was half full, the usual crowd of people waiting to be seen, no one bleeding or in dire straits that Winston could see, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when they took Peter in almost immediately, even bringing him a wheelchair. His expression said how crazy he was about that, but he didn’t argue when the nurse pushing the chair turned out to be a lovely redhead. Winston hid a smile as Peter visibly brightened, whispering something to the nurse that made her wink at him.

Things almost felt normal again. Well, as normal as they could feel in a hospital waiting room. Winston settled onto the couch with an outdated issue of _Sports Illustrated_ as Ray happily chose a _National Geographic_. Winston was just getting into an article on the football prospects for the previous year when Egon arrived.

Looking like his girl had just run away with his best friend. Winston cast an involuntary glance at the cubicle Peter had disappeared into, before realizing how stupid that was. Janine and Peter? When cows flew, maybe. Winston set the magazine down, turning his attention to Spengler.

“What’s wrong, Egon?” Ray asked worriedly. No slouch, himself, in the observation department. Sometimes Winston wondered if he picked up even more than Winston himself did, having known their other two teammates far longer, and just chose to focus on the positive.

“Where’s Peter?” Sharp blue eyes swept the waiting room, ending up on those same cubicle doors.

“They took him in already. What’s up, m’man?”

Egon turned back to them, looking grimmer by the moment as he took a seat facing them both and silently laid out on the coffee table between them the newspaper he’d been holding. Winston hadn’t even noticed it until then.

It was the _New York Times_ , that day’s issue. And under the usual top headlines of world and national issues, Winston’s eye immediately caught an only slightly smaller headline on the bottom half of the page: _“Ghosts of a Ghostbuster: Is a Con-Artist’s Son Conning the City?”_

His stomach took a dive into his shoes as Ray made a soft sound of protest beside him. Winston made himself read on.

_“The Ghostbusters are likelier to be frauds than even their unbelievers would have guessed._

_“There have always been those who have wondered. Ghosts, goblins, and demons: haven’t those always been the staples of myth? And yet the Ghostbusters regularly make the news ‘busting’ beings most people don’t even believe in. Sometimes they even do it on city money, and with considerable damage to city property. Is this a public service, or one of the most elaborate cons ever?”_

_“They may have more reason to wonder than they think. It is a little-known and well-hidden fact that Charles H. Venkman, father of Ghostbusters founder Peter Venkman, has a police record for fraud and conspiracy stretching back over thirty years. The younger Venkman, unofficial leader of the team, apparently learned the art of the scam at a tender age. His skill at it is becomes clear in how long he’s managed to keep the family skeletons in the closet._

_“’I’m surprised no one’s made the connection before,’ Sheriff Sam Prouty of the Nashville Sheriff’s Department says. Charles Venkman was arrested there last September on bunco charges and was sentenced to a heavy fine. ‘Venkman’s son must have a lot of friends in the NYPD.’”_

Winston couldn’t read any more, sickened by that much. Yeah, Peter had friends in the NYPD, because the cops knew how much the four of them put on the line for the city each day. That wasn’t what had kept Charlie out of the spotlight, however. He remained a public embarrassment to Peter whenever he was in the area, but that was few enough times. He just hadn’t made being with Peter any kind of priority since Winston had known him.

Doubts about their integrity wasn’t new, either. There had been articles with similar first paragraphs, doubting the Ghostbusters’ science, usefulness, skills, you name it. The stories usually died after the reporter was invited to come on a bust with them.

But this, this hit where it hurt. To question Peter’s trustworthiness because of his father, and to air his father’s dirty laundry in public… Winston had some idea how Peter would take that, and it wasn’t good.

“I picked the paper up in the lobby after Janine called. She said the phone has been ringing all morning with requests for a comment from Peter, as well as some…negative reactions. She tried to reach us earlier but we weren’t in the car.”

“That explains the way people were acting today,” Ray said, muted.

Winston’s eyebrows rose. “You caught that, too, huh?”

“It was pretty hard not to.” A very gentle admonishment. Point taken, and Winston gave him a small smile as Ray slumped again. “Poor Peter.”

Egon leaned forward. “I’m afraid this might be bad, guys. Peter’s always had to fight to stay out of his father’s shadow. It was hard for him to accept even his friends didn’t think he was like Charlie. Now he has the whole city to prove himself to.”

“If he even tries.” No one wanted to say it, but Winston had to.

Egon gave him a sharp glance as Ray blurted, “Peter’s not a quitter!”

“I know that, Ray,” Winston said kindly. “Pete never gives up on any of us, or the job. But what about himself?” His gaze shifted to Egon. “How many times have you seen him hurt by what other people think, even if he argues with ’em? Add to that something he half believes already, that he’s his dad’s son, and you’ve got a recipe for some serious soul-searching and hurting, even if he does rally against this.” He poked a finger, hard, at the offending newspaper.

“It will unquestionably hurt him, no matter what follows,” Egon admitted.

“So what’ll we do? We can’t keep it from him,” Ray said.

“No—even if that would be fair, he’d find out sooner or later. Besides, he knew something was up from the way those people were treating us this morning.” Winston sighed. “Think I’ll start by talking to this reporter.” The byline, Scott Neville, meant nothing to him, but then Peter was usually the one who dealt with the media.

“Only taking the most urgent jobs for now also seems prudent,” Egon added.

“Especially with Peter hurt.” Ray was as gloomy as Winston had seen him in some time.

“We’ve faced challenges together before, Raymond. This is just one more thing we shall get through.”

“I know that, honest. I just wish it wasn’t going to be so hard on Peter.”

“What’s going to be hard on Peter?”

The new voice made them all turn suddenly, to see the object of their discussion standing in the doorway behind them, watching them expectantly. His face had a little more color in it than the last time Winston had seen him, and he stood with only one hand propped against the doorframe, but there still were lines of strain around his eyes and a gingerness in his bearing. His hair was rinsed clean, his slime-encrusted uniform wadded up in his hand, leaving him only in his jeans and a sweatshirt.

“Peter!” That was Ray, lighting up immediately before dimming again a little. “Are you okay?”

Egon was already at his side, not quite touching, not needing to. Peter seemed to relax just in his proximity. “What did the doctor say?”

Might as well put his two cents in. “Shouldn’t you be sitting down?” Winston asked.

A fond smile flickered on Peter’s face. “I’m fine, guys, didn’t even crack anything, just some spectacular bruises. Doc said it wouldn’t even get me out of work.”

Winston narrowed his eyes at that. Peter wasn’t above milking injuries for all the TLC and servitude he could get out of them, but then again, he didn’t like the guys going out on busts without him, either, and had downplayed injuries before to keep that from happening. But his expression was guileless, and the fact that the hospital would let him leave unescorted, on foot, said a lot, too. Which meant the three of them would be keeping an eye on their fourth for a while, but he’d probably be fine.

Physically, anyway. It was a good thing he wasn’t hurt seriously because he had a bigger problem to deal with at that moment. They all did.

“We’ll see,” was Egon’s only comment to Peter’s announcement, as he looked the man over with as much skepticism as Winston felt.

“So what’s going on? What’s hard on me? If it’s the money we raked in this morning, I can take it, no need to break it to me gently.” The lilt in his voice was as forced as the greedy glint in his eye. He knew something bad was coming, too.

And a hospital waiting room really wasn’t the place to get into it. Winston made that decision, slipping the newspaper under his arm with casual movement. “In the car, Pete,” was all he said.

Egon and Ray glanced at him but didn’t argue. Ray immediately headed for the door and stood there, waiting, while Egon shifted his stance, making it clear he was ready to help Peter if needed but would say no more.

Peter’s sharp stare jumped from him to Winston to Ray, uneasiness in his eyes, but he must have known a lost cause when he saw it. With a wince of surrender, he headed for the door with slightly slower steps, Egon right beside him. Winston brought up the rear. Peter had never even noticed the paper, which was a small favor. Winston wondered if the few stares they got on their way out, more than simply curiosity or star-struck excitement, had also gone unnoticed. From the flex of Peter’s jaw, he guessed not.

He wasn’t looking forward to this at all.

 

“I’m sorry, Peter. We didn’t know about it until the hospital.” With that prelude, Ray handed him the newspaper.

Winston watched through glances at the rear view mirror as Peter read. Egon was sitting in the back this time, Ray turned in the front seat so he was facing them. They all saw Peter’s frown smooth out, his face emptying, expression going blank.

That didn’t look good.

Ray opened his mouth to say something as Peter turned pages to find the end of the article, then closed it again, apparently not knowing what to say. That made two of them.

Finally, Peter reached the end, quietly folded the paper, and set it aside to stare opaquely out the window.

“Peter—” Egon finally began.

“We’ve had people call us frauds before. Nothing changed. We’ll just have to work a little harder on the P.R. angle, that’s all.”

The tone was as even as if he were discussing the weather. Winston blinked, taken aback.

“Peter, what they said about your father—”

Egon was doomed not to finish a sentence. “Hey, I’ve been expecting this a long time,” Peter said dismissively, glancing away from the window for only a moment. “Never met a reporter who doesn’t like to find dirt on somebody famous. I’m just surprised it took this long.”

“They had no right to talk about you that way,” Egon said. “Comparing you to your father is not only negligent reporting, it’s unconscionable.”

Was that a wince? You wouldn’t have known it for the calm of Peter’s voice. “It’s also part-true. Hey, at least we know why people were looking funny at me this morning.”

It was all too bright, too casual. If Winston hadn’t known the psychologist better, he might have believed it. But even in the rear-view mirror he could see Peter’s eyes were all wrong, emerald green shutters to hide what he was really feeling. Just like the false high of his voice. This was the Peter Venkman strangers usually saw.

And the cooler he got, the more worried Egon sounded. “Peter, I—”

“Hey, Winston,” Peter leaned forward, “is this the way to the next call?”

Winston turned to give him an incredulous look. “No, this is the way home. You just got out of the hospital, Pete—we’re not going to another bust.” Not to mention the…circumstances.

“I’m fine,” Peter said, a definite edge in his voice. “The doctor said to take it a little easy, not to put my feet up and do nothing.”

Ray spoke up, looking doubtful. “Peter, I don’t think—”

“Well, I do, Ray, okay? I said I’m fine, and I should know.”

They fell into uneasy silence, Winston not sure what to do, not liking the way things were going at all. Not as he’d envisioned, but quite possibly even worse.

“Are you on any medication?” Egon asked quietly from the back seat.

Peter glanced at him. “Just aspirin.”

“Then if you feel up to it, we’ll go. Winston?”

He took a deep breath, signaled to take the next right. “I’m going,” he said, resigned.

Mollified, Peter sank back in his seat, his slight flinch at the movement not escaping Winston. So this was how it was going to be, pretending everything was okay when it was obvious to all of them hard Peter was working to keep up that appearance of control and normalcy, and how deeply he’d been hurt underneath, emotionally and physically. Fine. If Peter needed to keep working and pretending things were great, Winston could do that. Maybe this was just shock and he needed a little time to process. That was certainly understandable. Or maybe he needed a little space before he thought about it, the first step in coping.

Winston just wished he could believe that was what Peter was doing.

He exchanged a worried glass with Egon in the mirror, then Ray beside him. No, Peter hadn’t fooled any of them for a second, but they would play along for the moment, give him time to deal. And if he didn’t…

Well, he’d learn just how determined his three friends could be.

 

The rest of the day almost made Winston wish he’d never left construction.

Working with an injured member was already a strain on the rest of them, even on a good day. It meant not only being slightly handicapped, but also distracted watching out for their weaker member. It was something they had to deal with during the bigger busts that couldn’t be put off for recovery periods, but usually wasn’t necessary for the smaller, routine stuff. Peter, however, was not taking no for an answer, running around looking pale and unwell, worrying them all sick. That alone had exhausted Winston, the self-appointed strategist and guardian of the group.

Then there were the clients, which just plain made him mad. It seemed like everyone had read that damnable newspaper and immediately jumped to the same conclusions the reporter had. If Charlie was a fraud, that meant Peter had to be, too, and intense scrutiny, cynicism, and condescension followed them all day, particularly Peter. It grated Winston’s nerves raw, and he could just imagine then what it was doing to Peter.

But Peter worried him—all three of them—most of all. Besides the fearless ironman act, as stupid as it was unnecessary, and the increasing pallor of his face as the day went on, there was the fact he hadn’t offered one quip, one sarcastic comment or witticism since they’d left the hospital. Nor was he complaining, or even discussing tactics and readings with them. Peter Venkman had become a one-man ghostbusting team. The better to insulate himself from the feelings that shone very clearly in his eyes in the rare unguarded moments.

Peter was hurting, badly.

Winston had never discussed the psychologist’s past or his parents with any of the guys, not outright. What he’d learned, he’d picked up in bits and pieces: Peter’s dislike of Christmas because his father had disappointed him on so many holidays past, the poverty and hardship of growing up in what amounted to a single-parent home, the countless times Charlie had promised something and not delivered over Peter’s lifetime. The tone of Pete’s voice when his dad called, happy and wary all at once. Winston’s own father could be disapproving and sometimes hard to deal with, but his word was solid and he’d always been there for Winston. It was hard to imagine a dad who couldn’t be trusted, and what that would do to a kid.

And yet Peter had grown up to be caring, trustworthy, loyal—everything his father didn’t seem to be. Maybe it was his mom’s influence; Winston could believe that from the times he’d met Pete’s mom before she’d died. But damage had been done. Peter still had a hard time trusting, and sometimes in showing how he felt. The apple might have fallen far from the tree, but he’d nevertheless learned some harsh lessons from his father. To think anyone thought Peter was like Charlie just went to show how little they knew him.

Not to mention how quickly years of public service, of risking his life and health and soul for the city, could be forgotten. How could that not hurt, even without the baggage of his father’s legacy?

Winston thought dark thoughts about Charlie Venkman all the way back to the firehall.

It was dark as they pulled in; it had been a long day. They were all tired, Peter looking positively gray and without energy, making no move to even get out of the car. Egon didn’t ask, just helped him stand with a hand wrapped around Peter’s arm. But once he was on his feet, Peter carefully detached himself and plodded upstairs with lifeless steps.

Ray stared after him with frank dismay, and Janine watched, frowning.

“Is he okay?” their secretary finally asked, looking at Egon for an answer.

“No, he’s not,” the physicist answered flatly.

“I don’t mean about the article—and by the way, there are about a hundred messages here about that.” She held them out, and Ray took them, flipped through them half-heartedly, then dumped them in the trashcan beside the desk. She didn’t comment on that, just continued, “You said he was at the hospital?” Well-hidden anxiety colored her voice.

Winston almost smiled. It probably would have killed her to admit she was worried about Peter, and it was the same with the psychologist. Janine Melnitz was one of his least obvious but most protective friends.

He answered her, gently. “He bruised some ribs on a morning bust, nothing too serious. He insisted on going with us to the rest of the calls.”

She chewed on her lip, digesting that, hearing the part he wasn’t saying. Then held up a piece of paper. “Huh. Well, I guess it’s too bad then I already cleared out most of tomorrow’s schedule. You’ve got a bust in the morning I already rescheduled twice—the lady’s gonna have a stroke if you don’t get out there—but that’s it.”

“Thanks, honey.” He took the sheet from her, scanning the information. The morning bust looked doable with three, and maybe by afternoon, if Peter slept in, he’d be feeling better and more ready to handle the world.

“There’s one more thing.” Her voice had gotten even more subdued, her jaw no longer working gum. Janine held up another message slip. “Jennifer, Peter’s date for tonight—she called to cancel. No explanation. The witch.”

Winston almost smiled at her tone of voice, but he knew too well why she was so mad. It was about the last thing Peter needed, even if he was in no shape to go out on a date. And he’d been with Jennifer some weeks already. If she’d changed her mind about him because of a stupid, presumptive newspaper article, what hope did that leave for the rest of the city that didn’t know Peter Venkman personally? Winston swallowed a sigh. “I’ll tell him.” He reached for the message slip.

Egon stepped forward, snagging it first. “I’ll tell him,” he amended darkly.

Winston didn’t argue, watching as Egon trailed Peter upstairs. Spengler was Peter’s oldest friend—if anyone could get through to the psychologist, it was he. Winston wished him luck as he turned to unload Ecto, Ray silently joining him.

But when they finally went upstairs, Peter was already in bed and Egon sat stiff-backed on the sofa, not reading the book he had open in his lap. He just shook his head at the two of them.

Winston went to bed that night with a last pitying glance at the lump under the covers across the room, and a heavy heart.

 

Peter was still sleeping when Winston got on the phone the next morning.

He was downstairs at Janine’s desk, determined to track down the reporter who’d made such a sudden mess of their lives, while Ray worked the phone upstairs in the lab, looking for Charlie. They’d talked a long time the night before, the three of them, debating options, and finding Charlie had been Ray’s suggestion. Maybe he was the last person Peter wanted to see at the moment, or at least Peter would think so, but Winston had agreed his dad being there would do him good. Maybe contriteness over the article would soften the old conman up, make him a little more sensitive. Peter could use all the kindness he could get at the moment, especially from the person who’d done the most damage to begin with.

Winston’s first call was to Tim Hodgeson, the reporter at the _Times_ they had some experience and rapport with. Maybe it would provide an in, someone to speak for them, Winston and Egon had figured the night before. Except Hodgeson was apparently on vacation in the midwest somewhere and couldn’t be reached. Winston sighed and asked instead for Scott Neville.

_“I’m sorry, Mr. Neville’s no longer taking messages. If you’re calling about yesterday’s article, let me connect you to the editorial—”_

Winston frowned, interrupting. “Neville’s gotten a lot of calls about that article?”

_“Yes, sir,”_ the nasal voice of the operator answered. _“One of the biggest reactions we’ve gotten to something we’ve run in some time.”_

Winston leaned forward in Janine’s chair. “Can I ask what _kind_ of reactions you’re getting?”

A hesitation. _“Mostly positive, I think. A few negative. A lot of former customers calling to get more information, afraid they were gypped.”_

Oh, Lord, this was worse than he’d thought. If old customers started coming back, looking for proof the four of them had actually caught a ghost and not just put on some expensive light show, how were they supposed to prove it? Even a peek into the containment chamber could be explained as some kind of hoax. Short of letting out some nasty entity to personally scare any doubters…but they couldn’t do that, could they. Those who refused to believe would probably take the obvious route, in a city with its thousand-plus lawyers. And, practically speaking, that meant a lot bigger trouble than Peter’s feelings and ego being trampled.

_“So how can I direct your call, sir?”_

Winston’s expression cooled. “I don’t think I introduced myself. This is Winston Zeddemore from the Ghostbusters. I want to speak to Scott Neville, right away, please.”

Startled silence for a moment, then the New York attitude kicked in. _“I’m sorry, Mr. Zeddemore, but Mr. Neville’s not in right now. But I will give you his voice mail if you want…”_

“Fine,” he said impatiently, unrepentant when she switched him quickly, in a hurry to end their conversation.

He waited for the taped response—Neville sounded like a decent guy, even kind of quiet, which Winston found didn’t make him dislike the reporter any less—and then he left his own short and sweet message.

“This is Winston Zeddemore from the Ghostbusters. Call me back today or I’m talking to our lawyers. 555-2878.” He hung up, hard, his frustration uneased.

“He wasn’t in, huh?” Ray was just coming down the stairs.

“Nope.” Winston blew out a breath in aggravation. “It gets worse. Seems like some of our old _loyal_ customers are calling the paper for more information, thinking they were maybe conned.”

Ray’s eyes widened. “But, gee, they call us. It’s not like they couldn’t _see_ the ghosts.”

“I know that, Ray, but you know how much trouble some people have believing even what they see. Especially if it scares them.” Winston stood, running a distracted hand through his hair. “And once it’s not right in front of you, you start asking yourself if you really even saw it. Maybe it was just a hoax. And then you start remembering how much you paid out—pretty soon you’ve talked yourself into thinking you were gypped.”

Ray had come all the way downstairs and perched on the edge of Janine’s desk. “You sound like you believe that.”

“No, ’course not, I just know how people look at us. You guys, you always just dove right into this stuff. Me, I started out as a skeptic. Didn’t last long on the job, but I know how a lot of people see what we do. They’re just looking for some excuse to call us phonies, and that… _article_ gave it to them.”

“Peter’s taking it hard,” Ray said quietly.

Winston sighed. “Yeah, I know. I don’t think he should go out with us today. He needs the rest, and he sure doesn’t need all the cynics we’re gonna meet out there.”

“Too late. He’s already getting dressed.”

Winston’s eyebrow went up. “Pete? At 8:30 in the morning?”

“He’s taking it hard,” Ray repeated, even softer.

Nothing short of crises ever roused Peter before noon. “Yeah,” was all Winston said before heading for the stairs. It was promising to be an even longer day than the one before.

 

“Hey, it’s Venkman!”

Once upon a time, Winston grinned at a cries like that, watching indulgently as his teammate would react, posing for cameras, preening at the attention, wallowing in their modest fame. Of the four of them, he was the one who really loved that part of their job and lapped it up for all it was worth.

Now, Winston watched as Peter shied away from the yell, sinking a little into his seat, eyes turned deliberately away from the window. Winston drove Ecto firmly through the crowd of reporters waiting outside their door, pushing some of the people aside with more force than usual. There were no grins on their faces as there usually were, only hunger for any salacious crumb. “Vultures,” Winston muttered in disgust, surprised to hear Egon respond beside him with a tense, “Indeed.”

The trip was a silent one, not the usual sleepy or contented silence, but taut with anger and upset. Not a good situation for any group of friends and co-workers, but Winston worried about more than that. In their job, they had to concentrate and work as a team or else they were in serious danger of getting hurt, or worse. They couldn’t afford major distractions and non-communication.

And yet there wasn’t much choice he could see. The woman they were responding to was desperate, and Pete’s situation wasn’t going to clear up any time soon. Which left Winston to try to keep his unit together, functioning, and safe. Which in turn meant he had to forget about the article and Peter’s suffering, and give all his attention to their job, because he knew he’d be the only one doing so.

They weren’t even going to give Peter the option of dealing with the clients anymore, not that Venkman seemed to notice. As they pulled up in front of the old Victorian house, Ray was already bounding up the stairs to talk to their patron while the rest of them unpacked. Winston watched Peter as he worked, looking for signs of impaired movement, weaknesses he should be watching out for, but other than obvious distraction and some stiffness, he did seem ready. Winston couldn’t help but also note the hollow eyes and flat expression, but while the friend in him winced in reaction, he had to put it out of his mind for the moment.

The bust, however, went remarkably smoothly. The big threat was a mischievous Class 3 that had been driving the elderly owner of the house to her wit’s end but that was little match for the four of them and their equipment. Egon and Ray trapped it in one corner of the living room while Peter put out the trap and Winston stayed at their backs, keeping an eye out for more. But there weren’t any. Egon carried the trap out while Winston and Peter packed up and Ray settled the bill. The three of them were just walking out as Egon met them at the door, his expression pained.

“Peter, don’t pay any attention to them.”

Winston raised his eyebrows, then drew them together as Peter’s only reaction was to tense, striding out the door without a word. In fact, he hadn’t even spoken that day that Winston had heard.

Egon gave them a worried look and followed, Winston and Ray immediately behind him. Right out into the crowd that waited outside, bunched loosely around the door and Ecto, no doubt what had drawn them.

At the sight of Peter, murmurs rose to shouts and exclamations.

“Venkman, you con another customer?”

“Hey, Venkman, nice business you’ve got goin’!”

“You phonies!”

Catcalls followed.

Winston’s jaw bunched. There would be no point saying anything to them—mobs were awfully hard to redirect, and a shouting match would only do more harm. Instead, he took Peter’s lead, staring straight ahead as he waded through to Ecto, stuffing equipment in, ignoring the pushing and waves of derision around him. He saw Peter out of the corner of his eye, reaching for the door handle when a more audacious member of the crowd, a teenager with a sneer on his face, elbowed the psychologist in the ribs, the same side he’d bruised the day before.

Winston’s fury rose as he saw the little color left in Peter’s face leach away, but he was on the wrong side of the car, too far away to help. Ray was already lunging toward Peter, unusual anger plain on his face.

Police officers suddenly appeared in the crowd, shoving back the masses none-too-gently, including the teenager, away from Peter and Ecto. Three of them corralled the group, ordering them in no uncertain terms to immediately disperse, while a fourth helped Ray usher Peter into the car, the brunet moving woodenly.

The cop, a large Latino man with a friendly face and a nametag that read “L. Hurtado,” leaned forward just as Egon finally made it to the car, too. “Sorry about that. You guys let us know where you’ll be going for busts for the next few days and we’ll make sure a couple of guys are there to keep an eye on things. Don’t let these idiots get to you, Dr. Venkman. Some of us know what you guys really do.”

Winston felt the worst of the tightness crawl out of his shoulders, and he gave the officer a grateful look. A cop—it figured. Most of the NYPD had become Ghostbuster fans over the years, united in the bond of those who put their lives regularly at risk for the sake of others.

“Thank you, Officer Hurtado,” Egon was saying warmly, and Winston ducked down to get a glance of Peter inside the car. Something flickered in his eyes, the bit of kindness reaching where the nastiness hadn’t been able to. And then he shut down again, offering a monotone thanks of his own.

Winston swallowed a sigh, and climbed into the car. The least he could do was get them the heck out of there, to the privacy of the firehall.

For all the good it would do. Despite their best efforts, Peter barely said another word on the way back.

 

“I don’t want to talk about this, Egon.”

Winston stepped off the last slat of the spiral staircase, on his way to find a book in the living room, but froze when he heard Peter’s voice from the kitchen.

“Peter, you can’t go on this way. It’s very clear how deeply this has hurt you and we want to help. But you of all people know how important it is to talk something out that’s bothering you. Why won’t you?” Sheer frustration, the kind Winston rarely heard from the physicist.

“I don’t want to.” The bitterness in Peter’s tone took him aback. “I _can’t_. I don’t even know how I feel. You try having your dad’s dirty…” He trailed off. Clamming up again.

There was the soft sound of movement. “You feel hurt and exposed. That is completely understandable. I’m certain any of us would feel the same in your position. But it is not as bad as it seems. You still have your job and your friends, and no matter what that idiot speculated in the paper, you do not live in your father’s shadow. This does not change who you are one iota.”

_Idiot?_ Winston grinned.

“Try telling that to Jen. It doesn’t matter much who you are if nobody sees you that way.” Peter was so quiet, Winston had to lean forward to hear. Okay, it was eavesdropping, but no secrets were being shared he didn’t already know, and he was worried.

The frustration was back. “Certainly it does. You owe neither the public nor a fickle girlfriend anything, no explanations, no image to live up to. Let them believe what they wish. Those who care about you know the truth.”

“Yeah, good advice, Egon. What if the public thinks we’re unscientific phonies?”

It was meant to push a button and it did. Winston could almost hear Egon stiffen. “Then we shall deal with that, too. We will continue to get calls from those who cannot deny the need for our services, so you needn’t worry about the business, and the naysayers we shall handle with as they come.”

Which was saying a lot. Egon’s reputation in the scientific community had always meant a lot to him. If Peter had thought his old friend would want to distance himself from a suspected fraud, he’d been mistaken.

There was a pause as he took that in, and Winston silently encouraged him. Then wilted the moment he heard Peter begin to speak. “Look, I’m fine. I’ll deal with this. Next week there’s gonna be something in the paper about the mayor and everyone’s gonna be on his case and forget all about me.” Winston imagined his face was as neutral as his voice, all the emotions tucked away again. Zeddemore made a face, unseen. So much for getting through to the man. For a moment, there had been a crack, but those defenses had had years of development and weren’t that quick to fold.

Egon sounded equally resigned. “Perhaps then you should stay at home for a few days while we deal with the—”

“No way.” There was the sound of a chair pushed violently back, its legs screeching along the tile floor.

“Peter, it might be prudent. Why expose yourself to needless antagonizing?”

“Needless?” His voice had risen a shrill octave. “Is that what I am now? Useless for the team, the fifth wheel?”  
“Of course not,” Egon answered impatiently. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous. That’s good—any other names you want to throw at me?!”

The situation was getting out of hand and Winston took another step toward the kitchen.

“Peter.”

That was all Egon said, and very gently. Winston froze again, wondering if Peter would even hear it in his agitation.

Maybe it was all he would have heard. His voice fell just as abruptly, abashed now, verging on despair. “’M sorry, Egon. I just…I can’t do this right now.”

And before Winston knew it, Peter was rushing out of the kitchen. He contrived to look innocent, as if he’d just arrived, but Peter didn’t even seem to notice him, heading downstairs in a headlong rush, probably retreating to his office.

From the kitchen came a tired sigh, then another _scrick_ of a chair pushed back, and Egon appeared in the doorway looking old and worn. He was polishing his glasses, but his eyes met Winston’s with keen sharpness.

“I heard,” Winston admitted. “Sounds at least like he’s tryin’.” Which had surprised him. Here he’d thought Peter had been shutting them out, but really he just didn’t know how to let them in.

Egon nodded once. “I can’t fault him--I believe he’s doing his best, but it’s very difficult for him to deal with. We will have to be patient.”

Winston snorted. “With Pete? What else is new?”

The humor at least quirked Egon’s mouth, probably the best he was going to get. “Indeed. Did Ray reach Mr. Venkman?”

It was amazing how his voice could cool like that from one sentence to the next. Winston hoped he was there when Egon and Charlie Venkman met next, because there was bound to be a spectacular collision. “Not yet. He’s got some feelers out. I haven’t been able to reach Neville, either.”

Egon’s expression grew even colder. “I wish to have a few words with Mr. Neville himself. Of all the irresponsible, mean-spirited—”

Any other invectives he would have credited the reporter with died away at the sound of the klaxon. They weren’t scheduled for any busts, Janine had said, which meant an emergency, something they couldn’t sit out. What lousy timing. Winston saw his own exasperation mirrored in Egon’s eyes, but that was the nature of the job. The next second, they were flying down the stairs. Peter was already suiting up, Ray dashing out of the basement stairwell.

“Sounds like a mean one, guys—big nasty, throwing things at people.” Peter’s words were clipped, his gaze not quite meeting any of theirs, but it was down to business now. Winston spared him a pat on the shoulder before climbing into his own jumpsuit. And a minute later, Ecto went screaming out the garage door.

 “Big nasty, huh?” Winston commented wryly, staring up. “They forgot to mention the huge claws and that it’s throwing stuff like trees and benches.”

“Details, details.” Peter almost sounded normal, standing next to him, also looking up. It probably helped there were no crowds there to jeer this time, only a few scared citizens crouching behind cars, watching them with considerable hope and faith.

“It’s only reading as a Class Five,” Ray announced, bent over a meter just like Egon was.

“Yeah, just a really big and fast one,” Winston said. Fast was also an understatement. There seemed to be an average speed for the ghosts they busted, just like with human beings, but occasionally there was one that seemed to be Olympic level, zipping along almost faster than they could track it. Those were hard to catch, moving too fast to pin unless you anticipated them. Then there was the small point of those claws, sharp and dripping with…something, and the fact that everything the ghost reached, it picked up and threw. They’d already dodged two park benches and an uprooted water fountain since their arrival.

“There’s nothing unusual in the readings.” Egon looked up. “We should be able to trap it the customary way.”

“If we can catch it,” Peter muttered. “Plan?”

“Angle it away from the people over there.” Winston pointed to a row of cars across the street, behind which the tops of several heads were visible. “Move it more toward the buildings. Maybe we can close in around it and trap it.”

Nods all around as they checked equipment, then headed out.

Apparently the ghost had noticed the people behind the cars, too. With a shriek, it pulled up a bush and sent it hurtling into the vehicles, crunching in the top of a BMW. With scattered screams, the people ducked lower.

Putting civilians in danger always rankled Winston. He headed instantly toward the cars, firing as he went, incinerating the next shrub that went flying toward the people before it could reach them. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Pete heading around to the thing’s other side, almost getting it between them when, with a cackle that sounded an awful lot like laughter, the entity swung back and up, slipping out from in between. Great, it wanted to play.

Ray and Egon were kept busy zapping impromptu missiles as Winston tried again, this time following Peter. Maybe they could flush the ghost toward Ray and Egon and come up on its flank to cut it off from the civilians. Peter was almost at the line of cars, and Winston sprinted low and hard after him.

He was the one who saw the couple first. Young, their faces terrified, they suddenly broke from the shelter of the farthest of the string of vehicles, dashing down the street together, away from the Ghostbusters and the ghost. Out into the open.

Winston opened his mouth to yell, but Peter was already on it, instantly changing his path to intercept them, a moment later propelling them both toward a pair of buses on the opposite side of the street.

But the ghost had already spotted them. Winston saw the big blue head turn toward the three runners, and began yelling and waving, Egon and Ray in echo behind him, trying to draw the ghost’s attention away.

It was too smart for that, and too fast. Winston’s eyes widened in helpless horror as he saw the creature lift a moped parked nearby and toss it effortlessly toward the fleers.

“Peter!” Egon screamed warning, and Peter must have heard it because he shoved the couple, hard, toward the buses, sending them sprawling into safety between the two large vehicles. Leaving himself a lone target. It was, Winston would reflect later, probably exactly what he’d intended, but in that split moment as he turned and saw the moped crashing down on him, there was fear mixed with the resolution in his eyes. Winston prayed wordlessly for any other outcome but the inevitable.

Then the few hundred pounds of metal crashed squarely into Peter’s chest, smacking him to the ground with awful force, and he lay still. The moped bounced harmlessly to the pavement beside him.

Winston wasn’t sure after that exactly how they caught the ghost. He had no doubt the same deadly determination coursed through his other two teammates as through him, sharpening his senses, tuning out everything but their prey…and the motionless body of Peter Venkman down the street. Winston started shooting and didn’t stop until he had the ghost pinned between his thrower’s streams and Ray’s, Egon’s joining them a moment later. One of the other two threw a trap out, and it was with vicious satisfaction Winston watched the blue thing shriek and elongate and get sucked into the trap with a final snap.

Three packs clattered to the ground as they tore immediately down the street after Peter.

Winston was closest and reached him first, jerking the moped out of the way and shoving it aside, then dropping to his knees beside the body. Which, up close, wasn’t so still. Neither was it reassuring.

There was only a little blood, on his forehead and one cheek and flowing from a gash on his leg. The limbs looked intact, spread eagled as Peter lay flat on his back, and he was conscious. But it was Peter’s labored, whistling breaths and the uneven way his chest rose and fell that made Winston’s own chest tighten. The green eyes were shining, tears of pain, judging from the taut jaw and hands that were ineffectively clutching at the concrete. Broken ribs hurt like little else, especially when they’d punctured the lung and you were having trouble breathing. Winston knew a flail chest when he saw one, and how little time they had to deal with it.

“Lord,” he muttered, a one-word prayer, as he shot back to his feet, jerking Egon into his place and running back to Ecto to call for help.

He almost ran over the tattered, smudged people who were beginning to creep out of hiding now, until one, a middle-aged businesswoman, waved a cellphone in his face to get his attention.

“I called for help. Is Dr. Venkman okay?”

“No, he’s not,” Winston said tersely. “They say when they were coming?”

“Just a minute, they said. I told him who was hurt…”

Which would probably speed things up, and Winston managed a grateful smile for her. The crowd at large he ordered, “No one touch our equipment or the trap, or we could be in worse trouble, got that?”

Dazed nods. They were curious, but he doubted they’d be looking for excitement again in a hurry. Winston ducked into Ecto for the first aid kit, then, with a last glance around, turned and ran back to his friends.

Ray and Egon each had claimed one of Peter’s grasping hands, sitting on either side of him as he lay on the street. Egon was leaning low, his hand on the dark hair, talking desperately to the injured psychologist. But Peter’s attention was waning with his consciousness even as Winston watched, his lips already tinged with blue, his struggle for air worsening with each breath. The frantic green eyes still clung to Egon, but they were fading fast.

“Keep fighting, Peter. Help will be here soon.” Egon sounded as frightened as Winston had ever heard him. The eldest Ghostbuster went to kneel behind Peter’s head, dabbing at some of the blood, his gaze moving between his three teammates. Stricken Ray, struggling Peter, and determined Egon. God help them all. No matter what happened next, it was a scene Winston would never forget.

Egon was rubbing Peter’s hand. “Fight, Peter,” his voice winding down as Peter did. “Please.”

Peter’s eyes flickered, heaving now to draw in air that wasn’t coming. How many ribs had to broken for that, Winston didn’t know. But it had to have taken an iron will to have stayed conscious for so long already, through such awful pain and the torture to breathe.

Egon’s eyes were full now, Ray crying, and Winston felt his own throat prickle as Egon leaned even closer, trying to stay in Peter’s drooping line of vision, his voice abruptly changing.

“It’s all right to sleep, Peter. We’ll stay with you,” he murmured.

Ray made a stricken noise. Winston looked at him numbly, then at Peter as the injured man began growing quiet.

Dying.

And then the ambulance he hadn’t even heard coming screeched up next to them.

Winston pulled himself together. He couldn’t afford to give in to his emotions now, not while he was still needed. He quickly coaxed Ray out of the way of the paramedics, then moved an unresponsive Egon a little higher, by Peter’s head. And then he stood with a hand on both their shoulders, watching as two strangers took their place and began to work on Peter.

A timid clearing of the throat from behind him made Winston wearily turn, to see the couple Peter had been protecting. Momentary anger died quickly, too tired, too empty to keep it up. He knew what fear could do. They hadn’t meant to put anyone in danger, it was merely Peter’s nature to put others before himself.

“I’m so sorry,” the man stuttered, his arm convulsively holding onto the woman beside him. “We never meant—”

“It’s okay, folks,” Winston said gently. “I know that. He did, too.”

“If there’s anything we can do to help…”

He was about to shrug off the offer, anxious to turn his attention back to the knot of people behind him, but a news truck pulling up beside Ecto drew his attention. Winston’s chin rose, the previous two days returning to mind.

“Yeah, actually, there is.” He nodded toward the truck, a reporter already getting out. “Go talk to them. Tell them what happened, what Peter did.”

If they thought it was a strange request, they didn’t show it, giving him a grateful nod and immediately turning to meet the camera crew. People felt better when they could do something to help.

Winston knew the feeling as he turned back, helpless, to watch the battle for his friend’s life.

 

Seeing the Ghostbusters in the waiting room, waiting for news about their fallen teammate, Winston thought distractedly how much they looked like the way they must have before they’d met Peter. Egon had lapsed into calculations and seemed completely uninterested in human interaction. Ray curled up in one corner of the room on the couch, withdrawn and uncertain. And Winston…Winston felt aimless and adrift, wandering one end of the room to the other. It had taken becoming part of that odd team to make him feel like he’d finally found his purpose, his home.

The hospital chaplain had been in to talk to them, which Winston had drawn some comfort from, and Janine had come as soon as they’d called her but had to leave after a while to fulfill a promise to babysit. She’d been ashen and tear-streaked but as brave as Winston had always known her to be. And he privately wished Peter could have gotten a look at her like that.

But Peter wasn’t looking at anyone just then. He’d survived the trip to the hospital, although Egon had descended from the ambulance looking even worse than when he’d climbed in. They’d immediately taken Venkman away, and in the three hours since there had been only word that he was in surgery.

Winston had left the room once for coffee for the three of them, and found himself in the midst of a circus of reporters wanting news on the injured Ghostbuster. It was an experience Winston was anxious to avoid a second time, and he hadn’t budged from the waiting room since. But at least he had some satisfaction from the memory of their faces as they’d peppered him with questions and he’d stood his ground and spoken simply, anger simmering.

“The man who’s in that operating room, fighting for his life, is there because he was trying to protect some folks who were in danger. That’s the kind of person Peter Venkman is. Why don’t you go write about that? If you care about the truth at all.”

And with that he’d turned heel and walked away. Maybe they’d listened to him, maybe not. Winston found himself not caring all that much. If Peter survived, everything else could be worked out somehow.

The doctor finally appeared, walking down the hall as if in slow motion, like on the TV shows, pulling his cap off his white hair, running a hand through it, looking as tired as Winston felt. There wasn’t any sound as he watched, just as there hadn’t been before the ambulance had arrived, just…waiting. The limbo of a turning point, a moment that could well change his life permanently.

The doctor stood in the door, addressing them all as Egon and Ray sat up with rapt, anxious attention.

“There were a lot of broken ribs, air in the chest, a collapsed lung with the other going. God only knows what kept him alive until he reached the table. But he did, and it looks like we might have managed to keep him that way.” An upraised hand stilled any response they might have made. “I’m not saying it’s certain, I’m sorry. There’ll probably be post-op infection, there could be bleeding we missed, and he’s still dangerously weak.” The man smiled. “But considering everything, he’s doing a lot better than we expected. Right now I’d say it looks good.”

There was no separating into the far corners of the room this time. Winston somehow found himself on Ray’s sofa with Egon, the three of them unabashedly wiping away tears in relief and, no doubt, accrued worry and fear.

“That’s what we get for underestimating Peter’s stubbornness,” Ray finally said, a little soggily.

“You got that right, m’man. He’d probably chew us out if he were here.”

“It won’t be long,” Ray answered, smiling, confidence already starting to return.

Egon didn’t say anything, looking too ravaged to manage words quite yet, but Winston tightened a hand on his shoulder and gave Ray an answering smile.

If Peter made it, they all did. It was as simple as that.

 

The next few days reminded Winston an awful lot of the old adage, two steps forward, one step back. Improved vitals. Post-operative infection. Signs of awareness, if not consciousness. Fever. Removal of the respirator. Reaction to a drug, necessitating quick counter-measures and a different drug. Movement of fingers and toes and eyelids.

And then the murky green eyes had opened.

He hadn’t been there for that one himself, their vigil turning into a sort of shift-work as the days drew on. Life had boiled down to sitting with Peter and returning to the firehall to sleep and eat and check in with Janine before going back to the hospital. But Ray’s radiating joy at Peter’s response, even if it hadn’t been very aware, was contagious, and Winston rejoiced as if he’d seen it in person. When you’d been expecting a funeral, every little improvement was a celebration.

Like the first weak, wonderful words.

Winston had been reading a book, the newest Grisham novel, in one corner of the room as Egon sat beside the bed, unusually unoccupied. His hand was curled around Peter’s—Winston knew from personal experience how much it helped to have that grounding contact when you first woke in the hospital—but his gaze was distant, on the far wall, his expression somber.

Winston’s mind wasn’t really on the book, either. He finally slipped a finger in to keep his place and ventured a smile.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Egon stirred slowly, obviously a great distance away. With Egon, that could mean contemplating the universe’s expansion or exactly what Ray had served for dinner the night before. He blinked at Winston. “I was thinking about Mr. Venkman.”

That he didn’t expect. Winston rested the book on his leg. “What about him?” They hadn’t been able to reach Peter’s dad yet, although Ray swore he was getting close. Winston was surprised the elder Venkman hadn’t heard the news yet; it had even made some national headlines. In fact, there’d been a lot in the paper about Peter those last few days, all of it glowing. Ray had already started a scrapbook. The media’s about-face was one of the many things Winston couldn’t wait to tell the psychologist.

“Peter never talks about his grandparents. I wonder, as much influence as Peter’s father was on him, what it was in Mr. Venkman’s upbringing that made him so deceitful and irresponsible.”

“Pete didn’t turn out like his dad,” Winston reminded him. “Maybe Mr. Venkman didn’t get it from his dad, either.”

“Perhaps.” Egon sounded unconvinced. “We are not our father’s sons, as much as they may wish. But I cannot help but conjecture sometimes what Mr. Venkman’s life would have been like…”

If he’d met two great friends in college? Actually, Winston didn’t think Charlie Venkman had gone to college. Maybe that had been Depression Era necessity, or maybe it was just not in him, but somehow Winston doubted it would have made all the difference. Peter had himself straightened out, if somewhat unhappily, when he’d met Egon and then Ray, or they never would have become friends in the first place. His buddies had just helped him be comfortable in his skin.

No, Peter had never been his father’s son, just like the rest of them except maybe Ray, who hadn’t known his father that well. And no matter what excuses they found for Charlie, Winston would never quite forgive him for all he’d done to hurt and damage his son, from childhood to the article in the paper the week before.

“Does it matter? I’m just glad Pete turned out the way he did, against the odds or not.” The heart monitor rate increased, not an unusual occurrence, and Winston just gave it a glance before continuing. “Though I’m kinda hoping this teaches Charlie a lesson ‘bout how much he’s hurt his son. I’m not counting on it, and God knows I could care less if I didn’t see him again, but I know Peter would sure be glad if his old man came around a little more often, just to see him.”

Egon sighed, shifted in his seat. “True. I don’t understand how anyone who has a—”

“’gon.”

It was the slightest whisper, but they both heard it. Winston’s book bounced to floor, he sat up so fast.

Egon had leaned toward the bed, face taut. “Peter? Did you say something? We’re right here, Peter.” He curled his fingers more tightly around Peter’s hand.

“’urts.”

The wavering, fragile tone was both long-awaited music and a wincing ache. He was mostly out of it, Winston knew that, barely aware of anything except the pain he was in and that he was with someone he trusted to make it better. Which they couldn’t; the doctor had said he was at his limit with painkillers and wouldn’t be feeling too good for a while. Winston bit his lip, his fist tight in his lap.

“I know it hurts, Peter.” Egon’s voice was remarkably tender, soothing even Winston’s raw nerves. “It will get better soon. You’re safe now—you’re here with us. Winston is also here, and Ray.” Well, Ray was probably sacked out by then back at the firehall, but he was certainly there in spirit. “Just rest. Relax, Peter.”

It was almost hypnotic, and it had the same effect on Peter. The heart monitor slowed, his eyes stopped struggling to open, and he was back to sleep as quickly as he’d woken.

Egon’s face only constricted then, as he wiped drying tear tracks off Peter’s face with a shaking hand. “He’s not himself,” he murmured.

Winston snorted. After all they’d been through, Egon was making excuses for some half-conscious honesty and a few tears? “You try to be with that many drugs in your system and nine broken ribs.”

“Of course.” Egon sat down again, his movements stiff.

Winston softened. “Maybe he wasn’t himself, Egon, but he knew it was you, and you helped him. That’s what matters.” Apparently Peter’s trust of his friends to make it better hadn’t been so unfounded, after all.

Egon turned to give him a long look that said more than any answer could have, and Winston smiled softly in response.

The door opened behind them, and Egon instantly turned away, emotions probably too near the surface for him to want to be seen. The man could be private like that. Winston turned to face the arrival, expecting the nurse on her rounds.

A man peered inside, almost hesitant in his movements, expression uncertain. His light brown hair hung in his face much like Peter’s often did, making him look too young for his button-down shirt and khakis. Business casual, Winston noted, not a doctor, and frowned at him.

“Mister, I think you have the wrong room.”

“Uh, I’m sorry.” He straightened a little, more in than out now. “I’m looking for the room of Peter Venkman?”

Winston stood. Every once in a while a fan or a reporter got through, and he was the self-appointed doorkeeper. He stepped forward decisively. “I’m sorry, Dr. Venkman can’t have any visitors yet. You can leave your name—”

“I’m not really here to see _him_ , actually—I was wondering if I could talk to you or one of the other Ghostbusters?”

Winston’s lips thinned. Some people didn’t get the hint. He could almost feel Egon’s shoulders hunch a little more tightly behind him, leaning protectively over Peter. “I’m sorry, Mister, maybe later.” He reached up to usher the man out.

The man had fished for a business card and held it up. “I’m with the New York Times. My name is Scott Neville?”

Winston’s eyes widened, his face heating. “You’re Neville? You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here, man, after what you wrote about Peter. You realize how many people you hurt with your lies? That man you called a fraud almost died trying to save some people a few days ago.” His voice, pitched low in deference to Peter, was still hard and furious. He had to fight the urge to get physical, shake some sense into the idiot.

Neville had raised his hands, contrite and placating at once. “I know and, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt anyone, honest. I just—I’m new to this area, and, well, the Ghostbusters, it was a little farfetched, you know? So I started digging and found out about Dr. Venkman’s father, and suddenly it made sense. You have to admit, the connection was pretty suggestive.”

“I don’t have to admit anything except that you made a big mistake,” Winston shot back.

“Yes, I know, I did, and I’ll do everything in my power to fix it, I promise. That’s why I came—I wanted to apologize and see how Dr. Venkman was doing, but I also wanted to talk to you three, get your side of things. If Dr. Venkman is on the level—”

Egon, still and quiet until then, suddenly erupted from his seat and before Winston could react, had the young reporter pinned against the wall, his shirt bunched in Egon’s fist. “There is no ‘if’ in this matter. You were not only incorrect, but negligently so, and a good man suffered for it. Peter Venkman has saved more lives and done more good than you and your paper ever will, Mr. Neville. I suggest you print that and leave us _alone_.”

Winston’s mouth hung ajar. He’d never seen Spengler like that before, but a furious Egon was quite the sight. He finally managed to move, and gently extricated the pale reporter from the physicist’s grasp. It wasn’t easy, but Egon took a breath and a step back, giving Neville a look that would have melted steel, before he returned to Peter’s side.

“You think you got enough of our side?” Winston asked, calm now. Egon had been angry enough for them both.

“Uh, yes, I do, thank you.” And the man disappeared like a frightened rabbit.

Winston hid a smile as he turned away from the closing door. “I think you put the fear of God in that man, Egon.”

Egon didn’t deign to answer, still nursing ruffled feathers and back to focusing on Peter, but he didn’t need to. Ultimately, Winston wasn’t all that surprised. That fierce loyalty and protectiveness was one of the things that had drawn him to that motley trio in the first place, and he’d been on the giving and receiving end of it more than once since.

And felt like the luckiest guy sometimes in the world to do so.

Picking up and dusting off Grisham, Winston contentedly began to read again.

 

Soon, the letters started to arrive.

The telegrams had already begun coming the day Peter had been injured, but the cards and flowers and gifts always took a little longer. Except Winston had never seen them like this before. It was as if the city was apologizing for doubting one of its own and was trying to make amends. The first dozen bouquets had been spread around the hospital room, the first few boxes of chocolate saved in the refrigerator back home for when Peter would appreciate them, all the rest distributed around the hospital and donated to local churches and shelters. And Janine and Ray made sure every scrap of mail was carefully put away for Peter to read when he was able.

Which wouldn’t be long now. Winston sat in his same corner, in the chair that had since become “his,” watching happily as Ray sat on the edge of Peter’s bed and ran on in excited waves on some topic Winston had long lost track of. The head of Peter’s bead had been raised slightly, enough so he could look across at Ray instead of up at him, and the green eyes were exhausted but willing as they watched his friend. He ventured the occasional one-word response, about all he had energy for, and pain still shadowed his face, but for someone who’d just visited death, he didn’t look like he regretted coming back from the trip.

Still, there was a spark missing, Winston thought as he studied the drawn, sunken features. Not because of fatigue, although that lay on him like another few layers of gravity. It was, Winston guessed, leftover carewornness from the days before he’d been hurt, the distress he’d nursed and that hadn’t quite gone away even with the cards and flowers and praising articles. And not for the first time, Winston had the deep craving to go do something nasty to Scott Neville.

The phone rang, and Ray barely stopped the monologue as he reached over to pick it up and answer. His eyes abruptly widened, a quick glance at Winston saying it was more than just another well-wisher. Winston straightened, ready to help as needed as Ray looked back at Peter and said quietly, “It’s your dad.”

Peter looked as conflicted as he did, eyes brightening momentarily before growing wary and looking even older and more tired than before. Ray propped up the telephone for him against his shoulder, using the blanket as support, before he stood up. Motioning to Peter they’d be back in a minute, he and Winston headed for the door. Not before they heard Peter’s bodiless, faltering voice.

“Dad?”

Winston turned to face Ray in the hallway. “I thought you hadn’t been able to find him?”

Ray raised his hands, palms up, in puzzlement. “I hadn’t. Maybe he heard on the news.”

“Yeah, well, he better be saying the right things in there,” Winston said darkly. “Last thing Pete needs right now is something to make him feel worse.”

“I don’t think he’d do that,” was Ray’s sober answer. “He loves Peter, too.”

“He has a funny way of showing it,” Winston muttered.

It was a long minute, and Winston crowded in behind Ray when it was up, anxious to see how Peter was doing.

He was asleep, actually, the phone already having slipped down to his side. Ray snatched it up, found a worried Mr. Venkman was still there, and began answering questions while Winston smoothed the patient’s blanket and studied his face. Maybe it wasn’t as drawn as before? And there seemed to be an ever-so-slight smile curling the edges of his mouth. Huh. Apparently Charlie had come through once, after all.

Winston still didn’t like the man…but he was grateful.

 

The improvements seemed to come faster after that, physical and emotional. Moving would hurt for a while still, but at least lying motionless was no longer agony, and Winston began to breathe easier as color and some life returned to Peter Venkman’s face. Awake for longer periods, he was also beginning to say more than one word at a time, something Winston would never have thought an improvement before, but that also cheered him considerably now. Their usual banter had started up again, still a little stilted but getting better, and Ray and Egon were almost back to normal. Well, normal for them.

The visit of the couple Peter had saved, along with their three-year-old, had helped a lot. The grin the psychologist gave the boy was the biggest Winston had seen since he’d been in the hospital, and the parents’ effusive thanks for not orphaning their child almost made Peter insufferable for a while after.

And then there was the front-page article from Scott Neville. _“Ghostbuster Hero Welcomed Back By City.”_ Welcomed back from serious injury, that was, not the isolation Neville’s first article had put Peter in, but it was a start. It didn’t hurt, either, that Charlie was quoted generously in the piece, admitting his pride in Peter despite their separate career paths. Winston had a sneaking suspicion who he had to thank for Charlie’s phone calls, too, coming once a day like clockwork now and received by his son like a starving man a feast. And Peter had already had Winston read the article out loud four times, until he refused for fear of Peter’s ego bouncing back too hard.

Which was why they’d declined the mayor’s offer of a police escort home from the hospital, not even telling Peter. Comfort was one thing, creating a monster was something else.

Still, it was hard to begrudge the man anything whenever Winston walked into the room and was struck anew by the gaunt features, only just starting to fill out again, the still-guarded movements, the ever-present fatigue. Even as Peter looked up from a card he was reading and gave the older man a grin that was almost back to normal…it had been close, and it would be a while before they would all heal and start to forget, or at least move on.

Egon and Ray were in the middle of some friendly argument, sitting next to each other beside Peter, and Winston settled in his chair to listen.

“I don’t believe so, Ray. I’m quite certain the lady was addressing me with her comment.”

“Well, she was sorta looking at me when she said it. And she likes comic books, she’s told me before.”

This was better than he thought. Winston leaned forward, already grinning.

“She quite distinctly looked at me when she said ‘dinner.’ She’s already expressed a fondness for vegetarian cuisine and there’s a quaint—”

“But, Egon—”

Peter finally spoke up, still quiet but cheerful. “C’mon, guys—she’s been giving _me_ sponge baths the last two weeks. You think she’s gonna want to settle for either of you two after that?”

Winston’s grin widened.

The other two stopped, glaring at Peter. Physical payback was still off-limits, but an evil grin curled Ray’s lip. “Hey, Egon, maybe we should clean out Peter’s desk for him before he gets back. Kind of a welcome home.”

“Excellent idea. I believe he has a drawerful of old magazines that are long overdue for disposal.” He was completely deadpan, as Egon usually was, but there was an amused glint in his eyes. They weren’t talking about Peter’s medical journals and all three of them knew it.

Peter’s eyes moved from one to the other of them, eyes wide and smirk gone. “You guys wouldn’t.”

“Maybe we could replace that ugly lamp on his desk, too, that hula girl?”

“I have just the thing in its stead,” Egon answered, and already the two of them were conferring in hushed tones.

Peter stared at them, aghast, then turned pleading eyes to Winston. “Zed, you wouldn’t let ‘em—”

He laughed, held his hands up. “Keep me out of this, Pete. You know what the two of ’em get like when they put their heads to it.”

Peter leaned back in his pillow, looking abruptly reassured as he watched the two scientists conspire against him. “Yeah. Yeah, I do,” he said warmly.

Maybe Winston was a slow learner, but that was when it really sunk in. The respect and trust of the city, Peter’s dad’s support, his job—they were all really important to Peter. It would have been a while before he could have gotten over losing any of them. But ultimately, he would have, just as he would have gotten over that disastrous first article if God hadn’t intervened first. And that was because what mattered most, what he valued most, was sitting right there in that room with him, unshakable no matter how many reporters dug up who-knows-what kind of garbage.

You didn’t get a lot more secure than that.

Winston leaned back in his chair and kept grinning.

 The End


End file.
